The Meaning of Selflessness
by Finnick Odair4
Summary: Tobias' story, before and after he transfers to Dauntless. What he goes through, his relationships, and who he is.
1. The Deep Breathe

"Tobias." The voice is calm, collected. The deep breathe before the plunge.

I freeze in the doorway to the living room, studying him. Only, he doesn't look angry. Not like I thought he would be. Perhaps he hasn't heard yet.

"Sit down."

No, he must have heard, I realize. Then I understand. He is waiting for me to tell him. He wants to hear it straight from me.

"Sit."

I leave my safe place, in between the two doorposts, and perch on the edge of the grey sofa. I avoid his gaze and, at the same time, despise myself for my cowardice. Instead, I study the walls, but there is nothing to look at. I have never been outside of Abnegation, but I imagine that other houses, in other places, do not have walls as bare as ours. The plain grey is suffocating. It threatens to choke me.

"Look at me."

I turn my head slightly, just enough to allow my eyes to rest on his. They are a dull grey, bordering on black. Perhaps that is just my imagination.

"How was school?"

He knows, I tell myself, he must know. Why else would he ask about school?

"It was fine," I hear myself respond, and immediately wish I could take the statement back. My father always knows when I am lieing. I'm not sure how. Perhaps it is simply that I hate to lie, and so my words are never convincing. Lieing makes me sick, makes my stomach turn. Its bad enough to be beaten when I know I did nothing wrong. Somehow, telling a lie makes it seems as though I deserve it.

His eyes burn holes into my skin, "Good."

The simple word both breaks my heart and gives me hope. It gives me hope, because maybe he does not know after all, and it breaks my heart because I know I will feel a sickening guilt if I do not tell him.

"There was one thing," I whisper, the words barely making their way out of my mouth before evaporating into the thin air. I stand, somehow feeling safer in the stance than in the awkward position on the edge of the couch.

"Did I tell you to stand?"

"No, sir," I respond softly.

"Then sit."

I do as he says, once again resting on the very edge of the couch.

"What happened, Tobias?"

The way he says 'Tobias,' as though the name has the power to destroy all of Abnegation, perhaps the entire city, confirms my initial fears. He only ever uses that tone when something is very wrong. When he wants me to know that he is ashamed that I am his son. I feel my muscles tense up involuntarily, my body shaking.

"The teachers handed back the final tests for the year. I got a B in history," I'm surprised by the collected cool of my own voice, but know the tone will only anger him more.

"Tsk tsk…and what did you think of that, Tobias?"

"The other students receive B's all…"

He cuts me off, standing, angry now, "The other students are not my son, are they?"

"No, sir."

"How dare you not try your hardest? How dare you receive a mark below what you are capable of? That is selfishness."

"I did try my hardest. I tried," I whisper, voice barely audible.

His eyes glower like embers taken directly from the flames, "Don't you dare lie to me, Tobias. That's two lies today."

"I wasn't lieing." As soon as the words role off my tongue I know they are the wrong ones. I know they will only anger him more. Instead of responding, he stares at me for a moment, and I know what is going to happen. I knew before I got home, of course. But my words and tone will only make it worse. Tensing up, I force myself to breath steadily, to keep myself from shaking. But I am afraid. So afraid of him. I hate myself for this fear.

"Go upstairs, Tobias."

"Yes, sir." I speak the words only out of a small hope that they will soothe some portion of his anger. Standing from the couch, I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as I turn away from him, warding off the tears that I feel coming. I wish I could run, leave this place. But he would find me. I'm not sure I would survive that encounter.

The living room is only two steps from the stairs, so I know he is watching me as I climb the first few. I feel his gaze burning into my back. Tonight, something far worse will be burning into it. I reach the landing, walk the ten steps down the hallway to my bedroom, and close the door. He may come up right away, or he may wait hours to do so. I think he enjoys not letting me know. It means I must sit in my room, mind never leaving what could happen at any time.

Sometimes I sit here and sob, begging God to have mercy on me. Sometimes I sit numbly, unmoving, mind lost in another world. Other times I pull out the blue statue my mother gave me, and hold it in my arms, wishing she were here. Then I feel selfish for thinking this, knowing that if she were here, he would abuse her as well. Then I wonder if it would be better if I were dead. I have never come to a definite conclusion on that.

I hear footsteps downstairs, but they are not headed towards the stairs. Apparently I have some time before he comes to deal out the punishment. This time, I sit on my bed, knees pressed up to my temple, and stare out the window only meters away. I watch as a small grey bird lands on the tree outside my window, and sits for a moment, wings outstretched. Then it takes to the air, and I wonder what it would be like to fly.

What it would be like to be free.


	2. Painful Remembrance

Unbidden, my mind begins to replay memories from my childhood. I try to shut them off, I always try to shut them off, but I can't. I don't have the strength to stop myself from remembering. Thinking back only scares me more. It reminds me of what he can do. What he will do.

I shudder.

The first memory that surfaces happened when I was four. It was the first time he ever touched me physically. When I was even younger, he would lock me in the upstairs closet. He still does this, even though I can barely fit. He says that if I act like a child he needs to treat me like one.

Now, though, his punishments are usually fiercer.

Back then, when I was four, my mother was still with us. She was scared of him, too. She didn't have the power to stop him, and she knew that if she said anything to the Abnegation council they would side with Marcus. He was their leader after all. Besides, if she did something like that…the results would not be pretty.

That night, I had been excitedly talking to my mother about my first day of school. I was finally old enough to attend, and would be going the very next day, joining the other Abnegation children my age. I told my mother what I had heard about this special 'first day'. You got to meet the teachers, and they had a special lunch for all the new students. Then, at the end of the day, they gave you a package of coloring pencils to keep. I remember whispering in her ear:

"For my very own, mama. Just for me."

It was at that point that he walked in. Marcus. "What did you say, Tobias?"

I remember I stood there, not understanding the consequences of my words, but somehow knowing that I had done something that he wouldn't like. Evelyn cut in, then, standing beside me:

"Tobias was just asking if he could help me with supper, tonight, because he won't be here tomorrow to help with lunch. It's his first day of class."

"Don't you dare lie to me." Marcus voice was only slightly below a yell, but there was a strange calmness mixed in. A calmness with a barbaric aftertaste.

I knew then what was going to happen. I had seen it before. Seen my father hit my mother. I stepped in front of her, then, and explained softly:

"I was telling her about school. How I get colored pencils all for myself."

Marcus eyes blazed, and he stepped closer to me," What?"

"He's a child, Marcus. He's excited," Evelyn countered, voice shaky, but cold.

His hand flashed out from his side and he backhanded her across the face, "Shut up. I was not speaking to you, you selfish woman. You are misleading my son. He is not a child, he is Abnegation."

I realized then that I had begun to cry. I could not help my mother. I couldn't do anything. It didn't occur to me, then, what would happen next.

"Come with me, Tobias." His voice was calm again, collected. I thought the worst was over. I thought he would sit me down, explain to me how it was selfish to want a box of colors for myself. I should have known better.

I followed him upstairs, and into my bedroom. He shut the door, and only then did I notice the item in his hand. A long, wooden spoon. Painted grey like everything else in our home. I didn't understand. I had only ever seen Evelyn use the spoon for making soup.

Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving mine, "Tobias, you were being very selfish today. You know that."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" His eyes were cold again, and I felt myself begin to shake. I was only four; I didn't understand what was happening.

"Yes, sir."

"Better. Now, I need to do something to teach you that what you did was wrong."

"I'm sorry father," tears were streaming down my cheeks, "I won't do it again, I promise. I only wanted to use the colors to draw a picture for you and mother. Because I love you."

"You must never want something for yourself, Tobias. That is selfishness. For that you deserve to be punished, correct?"

"Yes, sir," the tears clouded my vision, and my body shook with sobs.

"So, don't cry. Come, lean over my lap."

I did my best to stop the tears from flowing, and, still not understanding, went over to him and lay across his knees.

"Remember, Tobias," he said," This is…"

For your own good.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the memory. To block out the four year old as he sobbed on his fathers knee. As he was told he would have to miss the first day of school for his selfishness. As he spent the entire day locked in the closet, sobbing, but knowing better than to beg for release.

I try to forget the child who lost his innocence that day, and who has never regained it.

I'm crying. I feel the hot tears flow down my cheeks, and I hate myself. I hate that I am so weak; that there is nothing I can do about it. I hate Marcus, for being the exact opposite of what a father should be. I never asked for much. All I wanted was love.

And I hate Abnegation. I hate Abnegation for being a cloak that allows those like my father to hide under. This abuse would never have been allowed in other factions. Perhaps even in other homes. But it just happens that my father is our leader. No one would believe me if I told them what happens in our home, behind closed doors.

No one.

I hear footsteps on the stairs.


	3. Crime and Punishment

The door opens slowly. I contemplate turning to watch as he enters, but instead I force myself to sit up straight and continue staring out the window. Only when it is to late does my mind tell me that this is not a good idea.

"Don't you dare sit there so arrogantly," Marcus fumes, voice hard, "you are to respect your father when he enters the room."

I so desperately want to tell him that I would respect him if he were worthy of respect. I want to do it, but I know that I won't. A small shiver crawls up my spine at the thought. I hate this. I hate my cowardice.

"Yes, sir," is all I say, turning my head to meet his eyes.

"Take off your shirt," he says simply, as though it is the most commonplace thing in the world. I knew, of course, that he would ask that. He always does.

Slowly, I take the edges of my t-shirt and pull it up and over my head. Then I fold it neatly, and place it on the edge of my bed. I remember the first time he came into my room and asked me to take off my shirt. I tossed it on the bed, with no regard for where it landed or how it did so. He made sure I regretted that. Now I'm more careful.

"Against the wall," the words are barely more than a whisper, but I didn't need them. It is the same almost every time. I step up to the wall, and place my palms against it, trying to keep my body from shaking, trying to hold back the tears.

I hear a sound behind me, and almost turn to look before realizing that he might find fault in the movement. I know what he is doing. Removing his belt. The hard leather one he only uses when he is very angry.

I can't help myself, can't control the escape of the words from my mouth, I need to ask.

"How many?" my voice is barely a whisper. He doesn't respond for a moment, and I wonder if he heard.

"I thought you understood that you are never to speak unless spoken to," he answers, and I can feel the anger coating his words.

"Yes, sir." I don't want to say the words, but they too come unbidden from my lips.

"Your disrespect has earned you an extra five, as is the usual punishment."

He may as well have made a list. Five for this, ten for that. Only, what he considers as disrespect changes every time. One day, I may be disrespectful for not speaking, and the next disrespectful because I do. I never know what to do with him.

I don't think I ever will.

One year. I still have one year of this.

One year until I can choose.

His voice cuts through my thoughts, "17 strokes."

I am almost sure he can hear my intake of breath, my quickening heart beat. I didn't expect that, but I guess I should have. This is one of the worst punishments he has ever given me. The worst was 23 strokes. I had bruises for weeks. It would have been bad enough if I had respectfully told him about the grade.

Not that I was actually disrespectful.

"What did you say, Tobias?"

My muscles tense up immediately. Did I say that out loud? I don't turn around; don't let him see the tears that immediately well up in my eyes. This was bad enough already.

"I asked you what you said."

My body is shaking almost uncontrollably, and I have to force myself to calm down enough to speak.

"I said: 'not that I was actually disrespectful.'" I whisper the words, somehow hoping that it will make the situation better. It doesn't.

"I can't hear you."

"I said: 'not that I was actually disrespectful'," I repeat my words, loud enough to be heard throughout the house.

"I still can't hear you," his voice drips with anger.

"I thought you didn't appreciate lieing."

The moment I speak I wish I could take the words back. I don't know where they came from, or how they released themselves. Still, in a small way, I am proud of myself. Proud that I stood up to my father. And then I remember that I am no longer wearing a shirt, and he is standing behind me with a belt. And I again wish I could take the words back.

I can hear the silence that immediately fills the room; hear his mind calculating what should be done next. I can't even imagine what the consequences of my words are going to be.

"Turn around, Tobias."

For some reason I have stopped shaking. I don't know why. I wish I was shaking. He will probably see it as an act of defiance that I am not.

I almost laugh at that. I don't know how I almost laugh, in what is certainly the worst situation I have ever gotten myself into, but I almost do.

I stare into my father's eyes, and I do not look away. It is in that moment, watching the hatred and rage dance in his gaze that I understand. I understand who I am.

I am Dauntless.

I know then what I will choose, when the year is over. I will choose Dauntless, and I will overcome this fear that has haunted me for so long. This fear of my father. This fear of Marcus. This fear of Abnegation.

But for now, I need to survive. And judging by the look on his face, that is going to be harder than one would think.

I don't see his fist before it connects with my jaw, but I feel the blinding pain that comes afterwards. He hits me twice, three times, in my face. I stand there. I don't try to defend myself. I know it will only make things worse, and I can't afford worse. Still, I feel the tears streaming down my face, and then I feel my eye swelling up, and the tears themselves causing pain as they attempt to squeeze out.

"You will never speak to me like that again."

I don't respond for a moment, my mind is fuzzy, not working properly. Then I realize that I need to respond. Now. What do I say? My brain is not giving me an answer. So I say what I have said so many times that it has become automatic.

"Yes, sir."

"You have 30 strokes. Against the wall. Now!" He is yelling. He never yells, never loses control of his temper. Not unless he is out of control. He is far stronger when he is out of control.

I turn around and face the wall again, my head throbbing with a pain that has already begun to dull. I have had far worse. But not far worse than what is about to come.

"Remember, Tobias," his says, sarcasm lacing his words, "This is for your own good."

I hear him take a small step back, and then a large one forward, swinging the belt as he does.

Crack.

I start counting in my head.

One.

He steps back again, and swings the belt, harder this time.

Two.

After twenty-five, I black out.


	4. No Escape

A grey fog surrounds me as I lift my head, and I realize I am no longer in Abnegation. Instead, I am surrounded by buildings of all colors, many almost demolished by both war and neglect.

The factionless sector.

I don't hear anything, not even the wind, though I can feel it against my skin.

The calm before the storm.

My palms press into the hard concrete, and I feel the sharp, uneven blocks of pavement pressing into my skin. Cold, hard. It reminds me of me father's belt, and I jerk my hands away, falling back to the ground.

_Get a grip, Tobias. _I tell myself, _You're fifteen, not four. You can deal with this._

Only I'm not sure that I can.

It is then that I see her, though only out of my peripheral at first. A small figure, though not at all delicate. I turn to face her, and she is looking my way, but in the evening mist she does not see me.

Abnegation, definitely. The grey clothes give her away. Blonde hair tied back in a bun, but falling out at the sides after a day of work. She isn't beautiful, not in the regular sense of the word, but there is a strange strength in her, in the way that she walks, that makes her the most the beautiful being I have ever seen. She is small, but there is nothing weak about her. Still, somehow it seems wrong. This girl, walking through the most dangerous section of the city, at night. I wonder where her family is.

She turns her head slightly, staring directly at me now, though I can tell that she still does not see me. In this moment, I realize that I know her, though I am not sure from where. She is so familiar, but I cannot place my finger on why. Probably just another one of the girls from school.

I rest my hands against the pavement again, and force myself to stand. Strangely, there is no pain. I reach behind me and allow my fingers to lightly brush my back, only then realizing that I am again wearing my shirt. I feel the scars of all the years of punishment, all the years of Marcus' belt, but no new wounds.

Strange.

Why am I here, anyway?

I walk towards the girl, meaning to ask her if she is alright. She tilts her head towards me as I come closer, squinting into the mist, and I know she must have noticed the movement. Her eyes grow slightly wary as recognition flashes into her eyes, and she takes one small step back.

Just a small step, barely noticeable, but it speaks a thousand words.

And it breaks my heart.

My father did not only deprive me of his love as a child, but he deprived me of friendship, acceptance, and everything that is needed for human existence except the very core essentials. Food, water, shelter. He kept me home from school so many times, and bruised me many of the others, so that everyone stayed away from me. Abnegation, because I wore their clothes but was still not one of them. I did not attend the regular meetings, where the rest of the families and children met, as my father did not allow it. The other factions stayed away, because I wore the grey of Abnegation and was considered a stiff, just like them. Overtime, rumors started about me. I heard so many, but I could never falsify them. No one believed me. People started to avoid me, moving to the other side of the hall rather than having to walk past me.

I've never had a friend.

So, when this girl, draped in Abnegation garb, whom I know but do not know, takes a step back, it hurts me, even though it shouldn't. Even though I should be used to it by now.

No one ever gets used to total rejection.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, stopping where I am, making sure she knows that I do not want to hurt her.

"Giving out food to the factionless," she tells me," What are you doing here?"

"I'm not sure, actually."

She gives me a strange look, and I know that was the wrong answer. I can't even imagine what she is thinking now.

"Not sure. Right."

"It's not what you think…"

"Look, I know who you are. You're Marcus Eaton's son. The troublemaker. Just, stay where you are, okay? Don't come any closer."

Ouch.

Still, I don't move. And then I can't move. I look down and realize that I have stepped onto drying concrete, and it has dried with my shoes attached.

I feel a panic rising inside me, knowing somehow that this is not going to turn out well. And it doesn't.

Out of nowhere a man runs, straight for the Abnegation girl who I cannot name. I try to scream to her, warn her, but I can't. My words freeze in my throat, and do not release themselves. At the last second she turns, but it is too late. I hear a gunshot, watch her fall.

A second figure steps out behind the buildings.

Evelyn.

Mother.

The man looks toward her.

I find my voice.

"Run!"

She turns towards the sound, and meets my eyes, taking a small step away, horror spreading throughout her face. I don't understand.

The man is still standing by the Abnegation girl's body. Now, though, he walks towards my mother. I frantically reach down, untying my shoes, slipping my feet out of them, running out of the fog and onto the street.

Another gunshot. I watch my mother fall. The man has disappeared.

I check the girl's pulse.

Dead.

Looking into her eyes, a sadness overtakes me. I know who she is now. I have seen her once or twice, and I do not know her name, but she is the Prior girl. Her father works with mine.

I couldn't save her. Why does her death strike me so greatly? Why should she matter to me?

I stand, but I cannot remove my eyes from her face. And then I remember my mother, and I run towards her. Her eyes are open, staring at the sky, but they move towards me as I approach.

"Stay away!" Her voice is only slightly above a whisper, but it is harsh and cold, "Don't come any closer."

I stop, and a numbness overtakes me. Even my own mother doesn't want me? Even in her death she can't accept me. I feel a tear slide down my cheek, but I cannot raise my hand to stop it.

A noise behind me.

I can't turn, can't move.

"Tobias. You aren't allowed to be out this late."

Marcus. What is he doing here?

I hear a shuffling from behind me, hear footsteps coming towards me. Then stop.

"Tobias, this is for your own good."

I hear the streak of leather meeting with the billowing wind, and this is enough.

I jolt awake, tears streaming down my cheeks.

It was a dream.

It's the same dream every time.

Every single time he beats me, every single time I am reminded of how helpless I am.

My parents I understand. Both rejected me, both destroyed my life. One through leaving, and one through constant abuse. It makes sense that they would haunt my dream world too. But the girl, I don't understand. I have seen her once or twice, and I don't even know her name. Why do I have to watch her die every single time? What is she to me?

Still, the dream breaks my heart, and I wake up sobbing every time. It is always so real. I never know that I am dreaming until I wake up.

I am lieing on the ground, or rather slouching against the wall, where Marcus must have left me when I passed out.

I made it to 25, I remember. That means I have five more. I've only passed out a few times before, and it only makes him more angry. He never forgives the extra strokes, sometimes he gives extra because I couldn't take my deserved punishment.

Deserved punishment.

I consider trying to get up, but at the first movement change my mind. There is no school today, it's the weekend, but after last night, I am sure I wouldn't be going anyway.

I wince.

His punishment last night won't be all that happens, I know enough to know that. He won't leave it at just a beating. He'll have something else for me too, I'm sure.

My chest tightens at the thought, and suddenly I am sobbing, and trying to not too because my entire body is aching, and that is just making it worse.

_Shut up, Tobias. You're so weak. You can take this. You're not four. You're not four. You're not four. _

But I am. Sitting here, on the floor of my bedroom, I am four. I am no better than that four year old so many years ago.

_You're such a child, Tobias. You don't deserve love. You've never been good enough. It's your own fault._

I know it isn't true, I know it isn't, but I have been told it so many times I have trouble believing anything else.

I'm shaking. I'm cold. I can't move to get a blanket, and I don't think it would help anyways.

I hate this. I hate myself. I know that doesn't help the situation, but I do.

There is no escape for me. Not for another year, at least. Perhaps not even then.

One year.

In one year, I will no longer be four. I will grow up.

I will be Tobias.

I will be strong.


End file.
